g that at the back of her mind was always
the fear of his being drawn into speculation and coming to grief. He was
not very brilliant. Ethel knew that well, and she knew, too, what
measure of sympathy the City has for those who fail.

The night he dined at Drylands, Jimmy barely thought of Lalage. He was
excited, and yet, at the same time, conscious of a feeling of
restfulness, somewhat akin to that he had experienced when he first saw
the shores of England on his return from South America. Once again, it
seemed as if he had been a long time in the wilderness, and was getting
back to his own people at last. Vera Farlow was of those who stand above
suspicion. It was impossible to picture her knowing anything about life
in a flat; and, whilst the memory of the past gave him a momentary sense
of shame, this was quickly put aside. It was all dead, done with; and,
if any women had a part in his future, they would be those like Vera
Farlow, women whom the Grierson family would accept and respect.

When he turned in, Jimmy helped himself to one whisky, and one only,
instead of the usual three or four, or even more, which he took when a
fit of sleeplessness was on him. After all, old Dr. Gregg had been
right. He was playing a fool's game. He awoke in the morning feeling
much fresher than usual, and fully determined to call at Drylands on
some excuse or other. As a rule, he was not down till after the postman
had called; but on this occasion he met that worthy at the front door.

"Fine morning, sir. Three for you to-day," the official said.

Jimmy took the letters and glanced at the addresses. One he crumpled up
and tossed unopened into the waste paper basket, recognising the
envelope of a press-cutting bureau, which circularised him regularly
once a fortnight; but he looked at the others with a frown, for though
the first was from Kelly, whose letters were always welcome, the
remaining one had been addressed to his club in Lalage's unmistakable
handwriting.

For a moment, Jimmy handled the letters with an air of hesitation; then,
as though he feared some shock, and wanted to brace himself up to meet
it, he went to the decanter and poured out some whisky, which he
swallowed neat; yet, even then, he opened Kelly's letter first. There
proved to be nothing special in it--congratulations on his book, some
caustic comments on Fleet Street and its ways, and the always-repeated
invitation to come to town, and stay with Kelly and hi